


you sure seem happy

by AGracefulShadow



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anon Prompt, Danatole, Hospital, Just angst, LITERALLY, M/M, Short, anatole is sick, lowkey gay, repost from tumblr, thumbs up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 02:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGracefulShadow/pseuds/AGracefulShadow
Summary: The doctors were all in agreement about his prognosis.But Anatole was Anatole. He was hoping for a miracle.





	you sure seem happy

“For someone who’s dying, you seem kind of happy.”

Dolokhov’s voice was quiet as he spoke, his words laced with something, an emotion he couldn’t comprehend. His tired eyes flicked from Anatole’s clouded blue ones to the open window and the gray, sheet like clouds beyond. Ironic, that the clouds outside matched the mood inside. 

Anatole shifted in the hospital bed, sitting up. Even that took too much effort now, as Dolokhov watched lines of pain carve into his face. “H-happy?” he breathed, with an attempt at a smile. “Yes, I’m happy.” He closed his eyes. “I’m going to win, Fedya, that’s… why I’m so… happy.” 

“Win?” Dolokhov asked. “Who are you going to beat?” 

Anatole’s tired smile grew into a tired grin. He waved vaguely at himself. “ _This_ ,” he said, his eyes wavering. “I’m… getting better… I can…” He trailed off and thought for the right word–Dolokhov could practically see his brain working, slowing down almost–before giving up and dropping back against the bed. “I’m just getting better, Fedya, that’s it. I  _know_  it.” He yawned a little and smiled at the ceiling. 

Dolokhov stared at the man in the bed, the pale, shaking, skeleton of the man he loved. His eyes traced the sunken cheekbones and the network of veins standing out prominently on his sheet white skin. To be completely honest, Anatole looked worse than ever, but he would never listen if Dolokhov told him so. “Better,” he said incredulously. 

His tone was lost on Anatole, who nodded stubbornly. Dolokhov sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring down at the ground. God, Anatole was stubborn. The doctors all were in agreement about his prognosis; plus,the survival rate of pancreatic cancer was slim to none, and with the way he was going so far, he was likely in the none category. But Anatole was Anatole. Any mention of his death and he immediately shot it down. He was hoping for a miracle.

Anatole’s voice snapped Dolokhov back into reality. “Fedya…?” he asked, moving to sit up again.

Dolokhov leaned forward. “What is it?” 

Anatole looked up at Dolokhov, something imploring behind the glassy covering over his blue eyes. “Could ah, you help me up?” He stretched his thin arms towards Dolokhov. “Please? I need to use the bathroom.”

“You should be asking a nurse for this,” Dolokhov muttered, even while awkwardly looping an arm around Anatole’s shoulders. He was even more emaciated when you  _felt_  him, and cold, so cold, behind his hospital gown. Dolokhov gently pushed him towards the edge of the bed, as if handling a china doll. 

“I know but,” Anatole said, shivering as his feet touched the ground, “you’re gentler with me.” He gave another weak grin. 

Dolokhov withdrew his arm. “You should take that up with the nurse then,” he replied, stepping back. 

Anatole shrugged. “I don’t… really want to,” he said. He took a shaky breath and an equally shaky step. “You’re always here anyway.” 

Dolokhov raised an eyebrow, but did not respond. “Anatole…” he sighed. “Do you need help?” He wasn’t really asking, just reaching out and putting a hand on Anatole’s shoulder.

“I think I’m good…?” he said hesitantly, taking a few steps on his own. “Yeah, I’ll be–”

He took one more step, and collapsed onto the tile with a  _thunk_ , completely still.

Dolokhov blanched. “Anatole?” He crouched next to the unmoving man, fingers brushing over his shoulder. “Anatole.” Dolokhov gently shook him once, then twice, then three times. “Anatole!” He wasn’t a religious man, but even then he was praying to  _something,_ anything, that he wasn’t…. 

 _Dead_.

Dolokhov stood up slowly, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Anatole…” 

_For someone who’s dying, you seem happy._

_I’m happy. I’m going to win, Fedya._

Silently, Dolokhov pressed the call button for the nurse. “Goddammit, what even was winning?” he asked nobody in particular. Despite himself, he glanced over at Anatole.

The body didn’t answer.

**Author's Note:**

> anon request from tumblr  
> if you have one send me @ ec-li-ps-e


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